


Something New

by CooperCooperGo



Series: Imagine ClintCoulson Prompt Fills [3]
Category: Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 17:12:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9832682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CooperCooperGo/pseuds/CooperCooperGo
Summary: Phil was good at escalating the merely probable into a foregone conclusion.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Application prompt: Imagine ClintCoulson. #Imagine Character A and B fighting

The showdown between Barton, SHIELD’s most annoying new recruit, and Harris, his latest handler and a total asshole, was inevitable. Phil had made it inevitable. He was good at escalating the merely probable into a foregone conclusion.

Barton saw the punch coming but Harris was fast and it clipped him on the jaw as he dodged. That would leave a satisfyingly incriminating bruise, Phil thought, as he watched Barton recover, fist already swinging in a retaliatory strike.

But Phil already had what he needed. Further violence would be inefficient.

Phil stepped neatly between the two men, forearm forward to Barton’s swing. The block was flawless—a twist redirecting Barton’s strike down and along the bone of Phil’s arm, its force dissipated. There would barely be a bruise there tomorrow.

He let momentum drive his hand along Barton’s arm to catch his wrist. Barton’s weight was forward, off-balance, and Phil took advantage to spin him around and jerk him back against his chest, Barton facing outward, his arm cinched across his body, just under his own ribs, with Phil’s locked down on top. He kicked Barton’s feet apart to equalise the height difference, bucked into his hips to force a flex in Barton’s knees, and let him pant against his chest for a second to realize that the hard press of Phil’s arm was the only thing keeping him upright.

“That will be all, Agent Barton,” Phil murmured into his ear, knowing soft words would work better on him than a shout.

Phil released him with a little push and turned back around to Harris.

“Assaulting a subordinate? That was your last strike, Harris,” he said. “You’re out.”

Harris, realizing how thoroughly he’d just been played, whirled and stalked out of the mess hall, his face incandescent.

Show over, the buzz returned to the tables around them.

“You always give such good theatre, Coulson,” Sitwell said, walking up behind him, grinning around a mouthful of tuna sandwich.

Phil neatly shot his right cuff, smoothing the silky black fabric of his jacket sleeve back into perfect alignment. “Harris was a liability,” he said.

“Yeah, he was. And I assume getting him to tender a letter of resignation is gonna be your next trick.”

Phil nodded. _Of course_. He minutely adjusted his tie.

“What about that one?” Sitwell indicated Barton with a flick of his chin. Barton was shifting his weight from foot to foot, obviously unsure as to what exactly had just happened and what exactly he was supposed to be doing about it, if anything.

Phil paused, really taking stock of the man for the first time.

Barton’s cheeks were flushed, his eyes round, with an alluring abundance of pupil. One of the man’s big hands was unconsciously rubbing the wrist Phil had restrained.

Phil had a sensory flash of the press of Barton’s body straining against his hold. The hammering of his pulse in the wrist he’d pinned.

“I think,” Phil said slowly, “he’s a keeper.” Barton squirmed under Phil’s appraising stare and tried not to show it.

“Oh do you now,” Sitwell said, dry as dust.

Phil pitched his voice to carry. “Barton. My office. 10 minutes,” he barked.

Clinton Francis Barton, 1.9 meters of scarred former-mercenary, with over thirty confirmed kills and a rap sheet as long as your arm, straightened like he’d been slapped. “Yes, sir,” he got out, though it sounded a bit strangled. His brisk walk out of the mess hall looked like an escape.

Phil watched him go with a grin that would have looked shark-like if he’d allowed it to show on his face.

“Ugh, I need a shower,” Sitwell said, rolling his eyes.


End file.
